


Keep Long Vigils by the Silent Dust

by amphitrite



Category: Batman Incorporated (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bat Family, Canonical Character Death, Fix-It, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Nightmares, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amphitrite/pseuds/amphitrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A large part of Dick dies when he sees Damian's battered body. Things aren't the same after that. But it's when he claims hearing Damian's voice and seeing him in his dreams that the rest of the family really starts to worry. Set after Batman Incorporated #8 and diverges from canon following that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not usually the type of fan who denies character deaths. When executed skillfully, they can be a sign of storytelling prowess even as they're completely heartbreaking. But Damian's death left this awful feeling in my gut—not sadness, but disgust. It was essentially the brutal killing of a child to further Batman's angst, which I found gross and completely unfair to the character, who they had worked so hard to build up, and who had charmed so many fans along his journey. I started writing this to cope.
> 
> When the New 52 started, I tried to give some titles a chance, but after Batman Inc #8, I swore off every DC Comics book except for Batwoman. And then this past week, J. H. Williams & W. H. Blackman quit Batwoman and had the remainder of their run cut off by DC, which led to the revelation of an editorial edict that no one is married in the New 52, and heroes, especially Batfamily members, aren't allowed to have happy personal lives. I don't even know what DC is doing anymore; they don't seem to understand their audience at all. Dark and gritty has its place, but the superhero genre is about _hope_ , about pursuing justice and order in a chaotic world.
> 
> So I'm posting this ahead of schedule. I'm angry, I'm indignant, I'm sad at what DC has done to its characters over the past two years. And this? Despite the torment I put Dick through, this is a tale of hope.

The days that follow Damian's stormy funeral hover bleak and faint in Dick's memory. It is a small, private affair—just him, Bruce, Alfred, Tim, Barbara, Stephanie, and Cassandra. Jason comes, too, but he doesn't show his face, though they all know he is skulking around in the wet shrubbery. To his embarrassment, Dick is the only one who visibly cries, though he sees Stephanie wipe her eyes and knows that Bruce's eyes remain puffy and red throughout the unbearable ceremony.

Tim disappears after the funeral. One after another, Barbara, Stephanie, and Cassandra slink off not much later, solemn and awkward. As Dick falls to his knees crying before Damian's newly filled grave, he sees Bruce and Jason talking out of the corner of his eye. Alfred lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, but this is one wound that Alfred's tender care cannot heal. (It doesn't help that he can feel Alfred's hand tremble as they stare at the newly erected headstone, right beside Thomas and Martha Wayne's.)

Dick dreams in technicolor reds and greens and yellows, the vibrant shades rendering his nightmares more vivid, electrifying. He sees Damian's dead body over and over again. Sometimes he watches him die, helpless. Sometimes he runs in at the last minute and catches him as he falls. Most times, it's just like it happened: Dick simply wakes up and Damian is dead, as if the world jolted in his absence and Damian slipped through the cracks.

In his cruel dreams, the blood-soaked tunic is warm in his hands as he weeps, the wound gaping obscenely up at him. Sometimes, he stares down at the dead body and thinks that this cannot possibly be Damian, because Damian cannot possibly be dead. Sometimes, there are ripples in his dreams, like static. There are times when he thinks someone is watching him from the shadows, hovering over him. It never speaks, never threatens him, simply watching as he cries. He wonders if it pities him, or if it relishes his pain.

Alfred whips up all of their favorite foods with a fervent enthusiasm bordering on manic, delivering cakes and cookies and soups and sandwiches and steaks and lasagna (and in Dick’s case, even cereal) to them individually and spoiling them terribly. Dick knows this is Alfred's way of coping, so he tries his best to consume all the treats, but the food never stays down. All too often he finds himself kneeling before the toilet, head buried in his hands as he waits for the tremors to subside, fresh tears mingling with the dried ones crusted on his face.

He skips patrol for a week, spending his hours staring at ceilings and doing push-ups and catching sleep between the nightmares. When he returns to Gotham's streets, it all seems too loud. Too dark. He punches criminals too hard and dodges too slowly. At one point he runs into Bruce on a rooftop. They don't speak, simply keeping silent vigil over the city lights and the murky sea beyond the ports. The original Dynamic Duo. There will always be something special unspoken between them, and in his haze of guilt and regret, Dick knows that Bruce, too, is drowning in grief. He knows that Batman needs the presence of Robin to ground him. And even if it’s been years since he last donned the red-and-green costume, he will always be Bruce’s Robin.

Later, they fly across the Gotham skyline together, perfectly in sync despite how long it has been since they have worked together. The car ride is silent, but Bruce mutters, “Thank you,” almost inaudibly just as Dick steps out into the cave.

There is a new case next to Jason's, and the sight of it fills Dick with fury. The blood and gore have been washed off of Damian’s costume, and under the spotlight, the fabric is vibrant and pristine. It feels like sacrilege—like rendering the gruesome reality of Damian’s death into a clean little bubble, a shrine to a boy whose spirit and impact on those around him could never be contained in such a small, quaint space.

Dick thinks wildly that Damian would have hated it. He would have hated all of this—the mourning, the grief, the unrestrained emotion. He would scoff impatiently and cross his arms and say something scornful like, “Get over it already, Grayson,” with a disdainful expression uncannily identical to Bruce’s. He would expect more of Dick, maybe throw in a jibe about being superior to him. Of course he would, the little snot.

_“So far I'd say you've been my favorite partner. We were the best, Richard. No matter what anyone thinks.”_

Trembling with anguished rage, Dick punches the case. The glass shatters around his unforgiving fist, the shards singing as they crash to the cold ground.

*

It’s after two weeks of fitful sleep and hazy wakefulness that he first hears the ghostly whisper as he leaps off a gargoyle atop a bank in the East End, at a harsh angle that leads to a harder, more painful landing than his skill ordinarily conjures.

“Getting sloppy, Grayson,” the unmistakable—but faint, as if the sound were traveling from galaxies away—voice reprimands.

Dick cannot believe he is so far gone that he’s hallucinating. Even worse, he can’t stop himself from responding: “Little D?” he calls out, the affectionately teasing nickname tasting like guilt and barbed wire on his tongue.

There is no response. Of course there isn’t. Dick curses and clambers to his feet unsteadily, loathing himself for the vicious streak of hope that lashed through his heart for those few precious seconds. Like a blinding flash of light in a dark place, it burns, the whiplash leaving white spots in the corner of his vision. He doesn’t know if he has any tears left to cry.

_“We were the best, Richard.”_

That night, he dreams in slow-motion, watching Talia’s assassin-clone strike Damian in the heart with that blood-smeared blade, over and over and over again.

*

The second time he hears Damian’s voice is after a shouting match with Bruce over his recklessness in a fight with Two-Face.

“Bruce, I’ve been fighting Two-Face since I was twelve years old—I can handle myself just fine!” he had yelled.

Bruce had countered with a sharp jab to the chest, in the center of the Nightwing emblem, and growled, “You took an unnecessary risk. Your right side was wide open—any of Dent’s henchmen could have taken you down!”

It was insulting to be treated like he was new to the superhero gig. Bruce knew better than to patronize him, and Dick knew better than to take anything a grieving Bruce said to heart. But neither of them had been in their right minds for weeks now, and Dick hadn’t bothered to hold back. Old wounds and old resentments had come spilling out, regardless of whether or not Dick had gotten over them years ago. It had felt good to shout, to funnel all his frustration toward something—some _one_ —but Bruce gave as good as he got, and Dick had stormed away from the conversation feeling even emptier than he had before, knowing Bruce well enough to understand that his hostility stemmed not from a lack of faith but rather a profusion of fear.

Without really thinking about it, Dick holes himself up in Damian’s room. In the days immediately after Talia’s rampage, the wound had been too fresh, and he had reasoned that Damian wouldn’t have liked for him to invade his personal space. But now, he is wracked with the desperate need to be closer to his lost little brother, to confront the fact that Damian is gone and, more heartbreakingly important, that he _is not coming back._

He grinds his palms against his eyes, drained of the energy he spent yelling at Bruce.

“When will it end?” he groans to himself, knowing that he is better than this, yet unable to stop the relentless barrage of despair when it washes upon him. He is so tired.

If only he had been there for Damian. If only he hadn’t allowed himself to be knocked out so easily. If only he had planned their attack better. If only _he_ had been better.

But he hadn’t been, and he will carry the weight of that regret for the rest of his life.

“Grayson.”

Lost in his thoughts, Dick almost misses the whisper, a nearly inaudible sound ringing with a strange desperation. He whips his head up, eyes flickering around the room as his senses kick into alert mode.

“Grayson. Grayson. _Grayson._ ”

“What?” he calls back, frustrated and desolate and clearly losing it.

There is no response, and Dick’s heart sinks inexplicably. But then the small voice says: “You can hear me?”

“Yes, of course I can hear you; you’re a voice in my head—what kind of question is that?” Dick replies, although he cannot articulate why he’s bothering. Anything to take his mind off of his thoughts, he guesses—even if it’s imaginary voices. He has officially reached a new low. Might as well commit himself to Arkham now.

“What?” the voice says, a little louder and clearer now. “I’m not a voice in your head, idiot.”

Even the voices in his head are in denial, Dick thinks glumly. At least it seems to be in-character.

“Sure you aren’t,” he replies wearily.

“I’m serious, you moron,” the voice responds. “Grayson, it’s me.”

“Yeah, that’s helpful,” Dick quips, although there’s no mistaking the voice or the tone for anyone else.

“Grayson, _please_ ,” the voice says, and something about the urgency laced in the words makes Dick sit straight up. A Damian that was a figment of his imagination would never say please.

“What is it?” he says cautiously just as the door opens. The voice falls silent as the shadow of Bruce’s tall figure falls across the floor, landing close to where Dick sits against Damian’s bed.

“Who are you talking to?” Bruce asks, and as he moves closer, Dick wonders how he missed those bags under his eyes earlier. He feels bad, but he has no way of articulating it.

“I…” Dick says uncertainly, not so sure himself. “Nobody.”

Bruce gives him a funny look before letting it go. “I apologize for earlier,” he says stiffly. “I realize this isn’t easy for you, either.”

Dick shrugs. “Wasn’t going to hold it against you,” he says, forcing levity into his voice that he doesn’t feel. “But for the record, I’m sorry, too.”

Smoothing out the corner of the bedspread, Bruce nods his acceptance and offers, “Tim is downstairs. You should come have breakfast with us.”

Dick has been taking his meals in his room, and he assumes that Bruce has been eating down in the cave. The thought of sitting through breakfast, acting as though things had gone back to the way they were before Damian had shown up in their lives, is nearly unbearable, and yet the undisguised hope in Bruce’s eyes cannot be denied. And he feels guilty for not having spoken to Tim since the funeral.

“Of course,” he says.

Breakfast is quiet, but Dick finds himself grateful for the company, and for the brief respite from his thoughts.

After the meal, Dick and Tim stay at the table after Bruce retreats to his room. Outside, the sun, buried behind heavy gray clouds, strains to reach Gotham.

“How are you _really_ doing, Dick?” Tim asks, as if he couldn’t tell by just looking at him. Dick is perfectly aware that he looks like a pathetic mess, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Not so great,” he admits anyway, scrubbing his hands through his hair.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Tim says, because he knows him too well. Dick bets that he had spoken the exact same words to Bruce earlier.

“No,” he says, smiling humorlessly, “it really is. He was so good at making us forget how young he was, but in the end, he was just a kid. And I wasn’t there for him when he needed it the most.”

Dick knows that Tim doesn’t protest because he understands—after all, he has lost countless loved ones over the past few years, and though some have returned to him, Dick remembers how Tim had retreated further into himself with each death, until he stopped bouncing back. He also remembers Tim, mad with grief, trying desperately to reclone Superboy. It’s what compels his next words:

“Did you ever hear Conner or your dad trying to talk to you?”

Tim frowns at him. “Dick, are you hallucinating?”

“I don’t know,” Dick says. “Maybe. I thought I heard Damian one night when I was on patrol, and then again today when I was up in his room.”

There’s pity in Tim’s eyes now, and Dick hates to see it. “When was the last time you slept?” Dick opens his mouth to answer, but Tim interrupts him. “And I mean really slept, not dozing off in between the nightmares.”

Shrugging, Dick replies honestly, “I stopped keeping track.”

“I should let you go to bed now,” Tim says as Dick rubs his eyes. Tim has a point, but that conversation earlier didn’t _feel_ like a hallucination…

“Are you sticking around?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, though he doesn’t sound too confident. “I just… I’m sorry, I just needed some time.”

“I know,” Dick says, unable to imagine how Tim felt about it all. When they weren’t trying to kill each other, he and Damian had spent all their time together sniping at one another. Tim had made no secret of the fact that he had never trusted Damian, and Damian’s heated jealousy had been just as evident. Their confrontations had always frustrated and infuriated Dick, but he couldn’t bring himself to care anymore.

With a grimace, Tim answers his unspoken question: “I wish things had been better between us,” he admits. “And I wish I had had the chance to tell him that I had grown to respect him, despite everything.”

Dick nods. There are so many things he wishes that he had told Damian when he had the chance, but at least he is certain that Damian knew how much he meant to Dick.

_“No matter what anyone thinks.”_

*

He returns to Damian’s room and sprawls out on his bed. There’s something comforting in lying where Damian once lay. After twenty awful minutes of staring at the ceiling as unpleasant memories swim before his eyes, his exhaustion catches up with him, and he falls into a turbulent slumber.

The Heretic is killing Damian again, impaling him brutally with his sword while his other arm flares up in flames. Everything is stark red and yellow, and as Damian gasps his last breath, his hood disguises his expression of shock in shadow.

Dick is screaming, trapped where his body lies unconscious on the other side of the room, when he hears Damian shout his name. But the voice doesn’t come from the body that the Heretic flings to the ground. A small, indistinct figure materializes next to his prostrate body and shakes him, shouting “Grayson! Shut up! Get a hold of yourself!”

This is new. Dick immediately obeys, undeniably delighted about this change in routine. When Damian speaks to him in these dreams, it’s only ever been to blame him for abandoning him and for not being there when he needed him. And he’s always been costumed and drenched in blood, his wounds gaping and taunting Dick for his failure and neglect. But this Damian is whole and in his civvies, jeans and an unzipped hoodie.

“Can you see me?” Damian asks. Dick doesn’t know what to make of it, so he nods. “Thank god,” Damian says. “I’ve been trying to reach you for _weeks_.”

“What?” Dick says stupidly.

“I tried everything, even following you out on patrol,” Damian says. “But I tire so easily, and I lacked the energy to make another connection for a long time after that.”

“What are you talking about?” Dick says, because while this is much better than being yelled at, it does not make nearly as much sense.

Damian kneels beside him, gripping his shoulders. “It’s me, Grayson. It’s Damian. I’m not dead. Or at least…I don’t think I am. Not completely.”

Dick sits up so fast he almost loses his balance. “What?!”

“I’m not sure either,” Damian admits, and Dick is briefly thrown off by his uncertainty. “I don’t even know what I am right now. I lost touch with my body back there—” he gestures at the gruesome scene behind them, “—and I’ve been trying to get your attention ever since. I can see what’s going on in the actual world, though it takes a lot of effort, and it’s nearly impossible to interact with anything. Dreams are easier, but I haven’t been able to materialize until today.”

“You’ve been watching me,” Dick realizes. Damian nods.

“I tried to reach out to you, but you were…occupied.”

Dick doesn’t know how he feels about the idea of Damian observing him crying and screaming over his death, so he tries a different tack.

“I fell asleep in your bed,” Dick says. “Do you think that made a difference?”

“Yes,” Damian replies. “I am energized when you think about me, so the tactile connection with my things must amplify the connection.”

“Damian, this sounds crazy,” Dick says. “Tell me the truth, are you just a figment of my desperate imagination and wishful thinking?”

“No,” Damian insists, shaking him again. “It’s really me, I swear.”

“Prove it,” Dick says. “Tell me something you’ve never told me before. Something I don’t know about you.”

Damian huffs in annoyance. “Of all the ridiculous…” But his eyebrows furrow as he thinks. “I believe Ravager would be a worthy ally and would not mind fighting alongside her again.”

“Rava— _Rose Wilson_?” Dick says in surprise. That was not what he had expected. He definitely wouldn’t have come up with that himself.

“Yes,” Damian says impatiently. “Have I proven myself now?”

“I guess,” Dick says, though it’s hard to push his skepticism aside even as hope threatens to burst him. “So if you’re not dead,” he says slowly, “then there must be some way to bring you back.” The scene around them begins to shift, the colors churning, evolving into something more palatable. Damian looks a little more solid, the fuzzy edges of his figure talking on a particular sharpness.

“Yes, but what?”

“I don’t know,” Dick says. “My first thought is the Lazarus Pit, but…”

Damian shudders visibly. “Perhaps,” he says warily. “If you are hesitant due to what happened with Father’s clone last time…and Todd…I would be open to any other options.”

Dick laughs hollowly. “You say that as if there are a thousand different ways to bring someone back from the dead.”

“I am merely…concerned…that I am not currently _in_ my body, and to revive a soulless shell seems ill-advised.”

Dick curses. “I’ll think on it. Ask around. Maybe Raven…”

Damian nods grimly but doesn’t say anything.

“Have you reached Bruce like this?”

“No, I—” Damian hesitates for a second before continuing, “Father is… I can’t explain it. He’s not you.”

_“So far I’d say you’ve been my favorite partner.”_

Dick thinks maybe he understands. What he and Damian had—have?—is something special, something a little like he and Bruce had going in the old days, before Dick grew up and realized Bruce wasn’t without his flaws. Dick’s had a lot of partners over the years, worked and teamed up with dozens of superheroes, but Damian has a special place in his heart. With Damian, he hadn’t just been content with being a good leader or a good partner—he had striven to be a good role model, someone who could actually sway Damian from his spiteful, violent ways and change him for the better.

Without another thought, he grabs Damian in a hug.

His arms go through Damian’s body, despite its opaqueness, and he makes a startled noise. Damian scoffs, but when Dick steadies himself and looks at him, he imagines he can see a hint of frustrated apology in his eyes.

“I can’t,” Damian says, which doesn’t really explain anything. “I’m fading. You must be waking up.”

The reminder that this is a dream chills him. “No, don’t go!” Dick pleads. He wants more than anything just to grab Damian and never let go.

“I’ll talk to you again soon, Grayson,” Damian says, sounding more confident than he looks, as the landscape warps around them and the world seems to tremble beneath their feet. “Don’t forget me.”

“As if I could ever forget you,” Dick says as Damian disappears. He hopes the words reached him in time.

Upon waking, he finds the room still dark and the world still bleak, but deep within him, a glimmer of hope has taken hold.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to follow by the year's end. Happy holidays, dear readers!

Tim doesn’t believe him.

“Dick…” he starts, and the pitying expression on his face is awful. “I know this is hard, but you need to accept—”

“No,” Dick interrupts. “Remember how certain you were that Bruce wasn’t gone? That’s how I feel right now, Tim. I _spoke_ to him!”

“In a dream,” Tim says patiently. “You saw the body, Dick. There’s no way he survived that.”

Dick shakes his head in refusal. “How many times have we seen the body and been fooled? It’s him. It’s really him, and I need to help him. With or without your help, I’m going to find a way to bring him back—no matter what it takes.”

Tim sighs. “I’ll help you if you really need me to, Dick. But I think you’re making a mistake. You’re not in your right mind.”

“You’ll see,” Dick promises. “We’re going to bring him home, and then you’ll see.”

*

Jason finds him in the library, leafing through tomes and explaining to Barbara on webcam what has happened. From what he can tell, she believes him—either that, or she’s humoring him—but either way, he’s grateful. With her endless connections, Barbara may be his greatest asset in finding a way to bring Damian back.

“Done moping now?” Jason drawls.

Dick scowls at him. “I’m busy.”

Of course, Jason ignores him and throws himself into the chair beside Dick. He reaches for the volume on top of a massive stack of books and peers at the computer screen. “What’s all this?”

“I’m trying to save Damian,” Dick says, and though he braces himself for the scorn, Jason’s abrupt bark of laughter still stings. “I’m serious, Jason.”

Jason snorts inelegantly, leaning back and kicking his feet up onto the table. “Sure,” he says. “What are you gonna do, dump the kid in the nearest Lazarus Pit? That’s bound to turn out great!”

Dick glares at him. “That’s the last resort.”

Barking a loud laugh, Jason says, “You’re actually serious! Good luck with that. It ain’t gonna be pretty.” There is a peculiar strain in the furrow of his eyebrows, and something in his eyes that looks like bitterness.

In disbelief, Dick retorts, “Are you seriously jealous?”

“Don’t be stupid, Dickie-bird,” Jason says, rolling his eyes. “I get it—you and I were never close like you and the brat. It was never _your_ actions after my death that I had problems with.”

Dick softens a little. He will never get used to hearing Jason talk about his own demise so casually, as if he were merely describing what he ate for lunch yesterday. But he has never bought Jason’s tough act, especially unmasked. “I saw you talking to Bruce that day,” Dick says. Jason knows which day he is referring to. “Are you guys okay?”

Jason shrugs, feigned indifference rolling off of him in waves. “Bruce is Bruce,” he says cryptically. “But we’re…better.”

“That's good,” Dick says. "He likes having you around."

“Sure he does,” Jason says snidely. "He loves roping everyone into his freakshow and then keeping us close so he can control us all."

“Oh, shut it,” Dick retorts, rubbing his swollen eyes. On screen, Barbara brings up Etrigan. “You gonna help, or do I have to kick you out?” Dick asks, pen between his teeth as he replies to Barbara.

He hears rather than sees Jason sit up properly, and he looks up in time to see him pick up another book from the stack.

“What do you need me to do?” Jason says, trying much too hard to sound like he doesn’t care. Though it hurts the aching muscles of his face to do so, now unaccustomed to the motion, Dick smiles at him in gratitude.

*

The nightmares don’t go away, but they recede in intensity, for which Dick is infinitely grateful. He continues to sleep in Damian’s room, fielding Bruce’s suspicious-slash-concerned stares with feigned ignorance and Tim’s unabashedly worried glances with forced smiles and, if he’s being honest with himself, a sliver of annoyance. Barbara and Jason are being helpful even as they sometimes treat him uncomfortably delicately, but it’s better than the skeptical, halfhearted way Tim accepts whatever Dick asks him to investigate. He could really use Tim’s shrewdness and experience with resurrection here—to say nothing of what Bruce’s help could provide.

Sometimes, he catches flickers of what he thinks is Damian—a shadow as he’s falling asleep, an echo when he shouts in his dreams, an impression when he puts his research down to go on patrol, an image in that all-too-familiar dream sequence. Damian’s presence is fleeting but real, he’s certain, even if he has no way to prove it.

But the quest strengthens him, giving him purpose in what had previously felt like a suddenly meaningless world.

“Tim told me you’re trying to bring him back,” Bruce says one evening as he peers over Dick’s shoulder at the compound he is testing. Dick squints at the monitor displaying the test results and forces casual lightheartedness into his voice—something that used to be as natural to him as breathing but now has become inexplicably strenuous.

“Did he now? Did he tell you about the dreams, too?”

A heavy hand—sans gauntlet, Dick notes absently—lands on his shoulder, and Bruce forcefully turns him around.

“You’re grieving,” Bruce says, and Dick wonders if he _is_ going insane, because he thinks he sees sympathy in Bruce’s eyes. “It’s acceptable to grieve, but you can’t let it consume you.”

Dick laughs openly, maybe harder than Bruce’s words call for, but he won’t deny that he is more than a little delirious from exhaustion. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Bruce’s mouth flattens into a stern, immovable line, and he says sharply, “Dick,” the single word sounding as harsh as a reprimand of a thousand would be from anyone else. “I want Damian back just as badly as you do, but you need to accept that he’s gone.”

“Except he’s not,” Dick argues, even though he knows Bruce won’t listen. Not without hard evidence.

“Don’t lose yourself to this fruitless cause,” Bruce warns, softer now, if not particularly kind. “I won’t lose you, too.”

Dick looks away. He never knows what to do when Bruce drops sentimental truths like this. Too many years of bitterness sowed between them has made Bruce one of the only people in the world capable of making Dick feel awkward. When he was younger, he craved that elusive love and affection from his mentor, but now he never knows what to do with it.

“I’m not crazy, Bruce,” he insists, meeting Bruce’s gaze as he says it, before turning away, “and whether or not you believe me, you can’t stop me.”

Bruce says nothing while saying everything, in his stubborn way, and silently retreats to another part of the cave.

Doing his best to push his annoyance aside, Dick continues to work. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees an apparition of a child bow his head in sorrow, helplessness, and gratitude.

*

Six weeks after Damian’s death, Dick is not much closer to finding a way to resurrect his little brother. He has spoken to everyone from Deadman to Superman, withstanding the pity—and often times, empathy and understanding—in their eyes, but while everyone is familiar with the blurry lines between death and resurrection, they do not seem to know how to help him. Most people in the superhero community warn him against toying with such dangerous things, but Dick knows he is doing what is right. He wouldn’t fool around with life and death if he weren’t one hundred percent certain that there is still hope for Damian.

He lies under the sheets of Damian’s bed, freshly showered and exhausted from patrol. A storm rages outside, the torrent of rain splattering loudly against the window in a loud staccato. There is a knife wound on his arm, dressed and bound. Alfred had tried to give him painkillers, too, but he turned them down, as usual. Bruce had always trained him to work through the pain. To survive. He is trying.

“Hey, Damian,” he says softly. He’s gotten into the habit of addressing the ghost, spirit, whatever Damian’s form is, even when he isn’t sure he’s there. In a recent dream, Damian had told him that in the place where he hovers between life and death, his awareness of what goes on around him is hazy, but sound travels to him more steadily than sight. Dick knows his talking to seemingly nothing is driving the rest of the household crazy, but he has more important things to focus on. And speaking to Damian helps to keep his hope alive when his faith threatens to buckle.

“I’m going to visit Doctor Fate tomorrow. Zatanna says that’s my best hope at this point. I’m going to ask him about that spell Jason found the other day. Yeah, I know it might not lead anywhere. But I have to try, don’t I? In this crazy world, nothing is impossible. And if we don’t try, then where does that leave us? Where does that leave you?

“I missed you on patrol today, buddy. A thug with bad aim got me in the arm with a cheap knife. It’s not a big deal, but I couldn’t help but think that if you’d had my back, he wouldn’t have gotten me at all.

“Everyone thinks I’m going crazy. Doing all this out of grief. Days like this I find myself wondering if they’re right.”

Thunder roars and lightning flashes beyond the glass panes of the Manor’s windows, and Dick sighs heavily.

“But I won’t give up. I won’t let you down,” he whispers into the pillow and shuts his tired eyes.

*

The air in Doctor Fate’s home is thick and heavy with magic. The shelves are cluttered with mystical items of all kinds, some more blatantly disturbing than others. Dick thinks he sees a severed head with eyeballs that follow him before they turn the corner on the way to Fate’s study.

“It’s good to see you, hero,” Inza says in her whispery rasp as she glides silently across the wooden floor. She looks up at him through thick black lashes, and the sympathy in her eyes is written plain. “We are sorry it is not under better circumstances.”

“Thank you, Inza,” Dick replies. “And thank you for having me.”

The door to Fate’s study is open, and chartreuse flames crackle in the fireplace. Fate stands at the mantle with his back to them, his arms crossed behind him.

“Nightwing is here,” Inza announces.

“Ah,” Fate says, turning around and gracing them with a smile. “Thank you, darling. Hello, Nightwing; please take a seat. Tea? Inza grows the leaves herself.” His eyes are unreadable, his expression serious. Dick always feels more unnerved by the unmasked Fate—he can never think of him as just Kent Nelson—than the blue hero adorned in magical gold firing dangerous spells as he soars over a battlefield.

“Sure,” Dick says politely, taking a seat next to Inza on the old, worn couch embroidered with little golden, dancing flowers. The still-dusty spellbook from Zatanna sits in his lap, heavy like a brick, as he accepts the proffered cup. “Thanks.”

“So I hear you’ve an interest in resurrection,” Fate says without preamble. For once in his life, Dick is in no mood for small talk, either.

“Can you help me?” he asks.

“I was sorry to hear about young Robin’s demise,” Fate says slowly, sipping from his own steaming cup. Dick bows his head in acknowledgment; he has heard the same from everyone he has approached, and he knows that even those who have had the fortune to never meet Damian genuinely mean it. “But you don’t think he’s beyond reach.”

After speaking to so many members of the superhero community, Dick has polished his pitch. “I’ve spoken to him in my dreams,” he says. “And I see his ghost sometimes. He’s told me that he is trapped on some astral plane, somewhere between our world and whatever lies beyond—I’m sure you know better than I do. He can hear us and see us, but interacting with us in dreams is significantly less of a strain. And even that still seems to take a toll on him.”

Fate strokes his chin, making a thoughtful noise. “This is not the first I’ve heard of this kind of incident. It is rare but not unprecedented. You are right to come to me: there is incredibly complex magic at work here, which has created an imbalance.”

“Will you help me?” Dick asks. “We found this spell that might do the trick—” he starts, but Fate holds his hand up. Dick snaps his mouth shut.

“Bring me the weapon,” Fate declares, “and we will see.”

Hope swells in Dick’s heart, so intense that he nearly chokes on it.

“I will,” he promises, hoping that Damian can hear him, wherever he is. “Thank you. _Thank you_.”

*

Impatient and restless, Dick returns the next day.

In the morning light, Fate’s study feels significantly less sinister. The spellbook lies open on his desk and the horrible weapon in his hands. Dick can barely stomach looking at it, much less peering at it as closely as Fate is. 

“I know this sword,” Fate says. “And I know this spell.” He caresses the gleaming blade and turns it over, examining the intricate sculpting and markings on the hilt. “It has many names in many tongues, but it is most commonly called the Soulrender. Not unlike the weapon Katana wields.”

It is the first concrete confirmation Dick has for his theory. His chest feels tight even as he realizes that Talia didn’t have the courage to kill her son after all. It’s something Bruce will want to know, but in this moment, Dick has questions that are more pressing:

“Can what it did be reversed?”

Fate frowns as he holds the sword up to the sunlight streaming in through gauzy curtains. “Reversed is the incorrect word. But a lost soul can be returned to its original body, yes, though it is certainly a risky venture.”

There is an inexplicable dampness in the corners of Dick’s eyes. “Will you help me?” he pleads. Everything rides on this.

Fate says nothing and simply looks at him for a long time, his gaze evaluating. Dick shivers under its blue weight and wishes Inza were around today to diffuse the tension. At last, Fate seems satisfied with what he sees in Dick:

“The forces of life and death are not to be trifled with—not without some guarantor of the restoration of balance,” he booms, his voice resonating like old church bells and sending shivers down Dick’s slouched spine. “What are you prepared to give, Dick Grayson?”

“Anything,” Dick says. It’s dramatic, as well as trite, but he means it with every bone in his body. “I will give anything for Damian to have the chance to live his life as he was meant to.”

Fate nods, and Dick can’t help but think that he’s passed some kind of test.

“To begin, we will need the body, and two days to prepare...” Fate begins.

*

By the time Dick returns to the Manor, it’s well past dusk. Head rattling with spells and warnings, he manages to avoid everyone in the house and goes to lie in Damian’s bed. With his hands behind his head, he stares up at the ceiling and thinks about what he’s doing. He keeps waiting to be scared, to hesitate, but the feeling never comes. Instead, he feels at peace for the first time in weeks. At last, there is hope. Where he thought there would never be color again—save for the terrible orange-red of that worst of dreams—there are dancing lights of every shade, hovering just out of reach.

He tries to think back to when he and Damian first met, when Dick smiled too hard and Damian refused his affection too quickly, and he can barely remember it. Their time together as Batman and Robin—that is what he remembers, flying through the Gotham skyline as Damian grumbled and called him a showoff, even as Dick caught him trying to emulate some of the acrobatic moves. Fighting grunts back-to-back and keeping each other entertained during boring stakeouts. Both of them trying to be Bruce and learning that as long as they stuck together, they had no need to be. Putting their wildly different perspectives together to solve cases and find solutions to every roadblock that they faced.

They had been unstoppable.

_“We were the best, Richard.”_

Back then, when Dick chose Damian to be Robin, he never thought he’d become so attached to the kid—but there’s something special about Damian. There’s something about what Dick had grown into for Damian, something different from what he was to all the other members of his very peculiar family. Maybe it was Damian’s age; maybe it was his upbringing. Maybe it was the fact that nobody else seemed to be willing to look past his bravado and see the confused, screwed up kid beneath the carefully cultivated layers. Whatever it is that makes their bond so special, Dick knows he cannot let Damian down again.

_“So far I'd say you've been my favorite partner.”_

Dick will do anything to give Damian that “so far”—to give him a chance to grow and flourish and become an insecure teenager and go on stupid first dates and fall in love. He will do it at the cost of his own life, because he’s already done all that, and it’s only fair that Damian gets to do the same. He will do it, because he loves his brother unconditionally, and he has pledged countless times to always be there for him.

_“No matter what anyone thinks.”_

*

Fate’s study is fast becoming very familiar to Dick. Today, no fire roars in the fireplace, and Inza stands by, donned in silvery robes, with a sprig of mint in one hand and the open book in another. Candles hover around them, and the heavy air smells of cardamom and magic.

Fate peers at him closely, expression unreadable. “You know there will be no going back,” he says.

“I know,” Dick says solemnly. He’s done the calculations, metered out how much life he has left to give. He’s hoping that he’ll be able to give Damian at least twenty-five more years—enough time to live out his teenage years, to experience adulthood; to grow out of childhood and into his skin. He deserves that much.

Fate clasps Dick’s left shoulder with a gloved hand, and there’s something in his eyes that lies somewhere in the nebula between pity and admiration. Dick looks away, unable to stomach either.

“As someone who has fought by your side, I feel obliged to tell you—you do not have to do this.”

“You’re wrong,” Dick counters, resolute. “This is what we do. We save people. And we protect the ones we love.”

Fate doesn’t say anything, seemingly pondering his words. Dick is just glad that somebody is taking him seriously, lending him a hand as he struggles to pull himself out of the abyss that threatens to swallow him completely.

“Very well,” Fate says at last. “Let us commence.”

*

The ritual leaves every part of his body aching, including his head. But with Damian breathing in his arms, he finds it difficult to care. The universe shrinks down to what lies between him and this boy—this strange, stubborn boy with the big heart, who deserves so much better than the world has meted out to him. Damian’s hair is matted to his head, his skin damp and reeking of sweat and incense, but Dick holds him close anyway, reveling in the small puffs of air against his cheek.

“We’re going home, Little D,” he whispers, and he can’t stop the tears that slip down his face. “I’ve got you, and I’m taking you home.”

*

Of course, Bruce is furious when he finds out.

The moment he gets word, he storms into Damian’s room and yanks Dick away from where he keeps vigil at Damian’s bedside. Silently, he drags him out into the hallway and shuts the door firmly behind him. Dick lifts his chin in defiance. He will not apologize for his actions. He will not apologize for believing, hoping, when others lacked faith.

“What did you do?” Bruce demands, shaking him roughly by the shoulders. “Dick, _what did you do?_ ”

“I made a trade,” Dick says hoarsely, because he is not ashamed of his actions, and he refuses to let Bruce make him feel otherwise. “It’s a fair trade—to make things right again.”

“No good comes of magic, you know that,” Bruce hisses.

“It’s done,” Dick replies, willing his voice to remain steady. “Nothing can change that now.”

“Tell me what you did,” Bruce growls.

Dick forces himself to look him in the eye and says lowly, “One day of my life for every one of his.” He swallows thickly. “A fair trade.”

Bruce’s devastated shock is so deep and genuine that for a long time, he can’t hide it. It’s so unlike him that Dick doesn’t even register it until it’s passed.

“He’s my brother,” is his only explanation. “He’s worth it.”

Then Bruce does something that Dick has experienced only a handful of times: He reaches out and clasps him in a bonecrushing hug.

“You,” Bruce mutters, but he can’t seem to finish the sentence. Or perhaps that is all he has to say. Dick can't tell. He just closes his eyes and wraps his arms around Bruce just as tightly, drawing as much comfort and strength from the embrace as he can. Even he knows that once in a while, there are things beyond words.


	3. Epilogue

For Damian, dying is neither quick nor painless.

The sword pierces him without mercy, plunging its freshly sharpened edges through his body and out the other end. Every nerve ending flares with shock and pain as he chokes on his last breath.

After an agonizing, interminable moment, the world goes black, and all he can think about is how he has failed.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

*

He awakens in a familiar room, instantly recognizing the vaulted, eggshell-white ceiling above his bed. Immediately, his attention turns to the feel of the soft sheets beneath his arms—it is the first physical thing he has touched in a long time. Another startling sensation is the heavy ache in his bones, not to mention the dull burn in his chest. With these realizations come the thought that if he is tangible, he must, once again, be a part of the realm of the living.

Grayson did it. The idiot actually did it.

Tentatively, he smoothes his fingers over the sheets and rubs his own skin in wonder as he marvels at the things he has missed. Simple things—the rhythm of blinking, the warmth generated by the heater, the sensation of thirst. _Breathing_. In that in-between place, he had felt like more of an idea—a memory—than a real person. Sometimes, while Wayne Manor slept and he wandered the cold hallways, he had begun doubting that he had ever existed at all.

Looking around, he notices the chair at the bedside. There is a black jacket draped over one of the arms and a tablet on the seat. He recognizes both items as Grayson’s immediately. Upon a tray on one of the side tables sits a nearly full glass of water and a half-eaten sandwich with cheddar melted down the edges.

The rest of the room is as he left it: spotless. He is staring at the barren top of his bureau and wondering if he should add a sentimental framed picture there when he hears footsteps down the hall—unmistakably Grayson’s, light but precise. Suddenly, he feels inexplicably nervous about facing his partner, who he has been observing all these weeks. Back when he was invisible, it had somehow seemed much less awkward having watched him cry.

Grayson appears in the doorway like a guardian angel. He looks… _Improved_ is the only word Damian has for it. His hair is tousled but not untamed, and though the bags under his eyes still remain, the clear blue reflects a renewed sense of purpose, as well as a certain confidence that had been absent for too long.

Their eyes meet, and Damian blurts out, “Hello,” like an idiot.

The expression that blooms on Grayson’s face is one of pleased surprise, and the smile that spreads across his features reminds Damian of sunlight uninhibited by clouds. Grayson bounds across the room and ignores the chair in favor of sitting beside Damian on the bed, grabbing his hands and squeezing them as if to ascertain that they are real.

“That’s it?” Grayson twitters, voice uncharacteristically shaky. “You go and die on me, put me through hell, and all you have to say is a measly ‘hello’?”

“I suppose you expect me to thank you,” Damian grumbles as he drinks in Grayson’s welcome proximity and comfortingly familiar features. They are wearier and heavier than Damian remembers but still stupid and annoyingly lovable.

Grayson ruffles his hair. “What’s a guy around here gotta do to get a hug from his little brother?”

Damian sniffs disdainfully. “If you promise to behave, I will allow a brief embrace.”

Grayson laughs, harder than the situation calls for. It had taken a long time for Damian to recognize and accept that whether Grayson is laughing with him or at him, it is never malicious or mocking. Though he would be hard-pressed to admit it, he always feels a swell of pride when Grayson emits even the tiniest chuckle at something he says.

“Well?” Damian says impatiently when Grayson makes no move to hug him, simply staring at him happily. He nearly regrets it when Grayson crushes him in his ridiculous arms, burying his face in Damian’s hair.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Grayson whispers into the dark strands. Damian allows himself to lean into Grayson’s shoulder. The soft cotton of the blue T-shirt is comforting, as is the familiar woody scent of Wayne Manor soap.

“Me too,” Damian mouths against the fabric, not daring to speak the words too loudly for fear of shattering whatever miraculous lines keep him anchored to this world. He knows Grayson will understand.

*

Damian feels different. Perhaps that should not surprise him, but he can’t deny that he did not come out of that void as the same person he was going in. During the long, lazy days of his slow recovery, there is a certain lightness to his being that he has never felt before—a strange willingness to let go of (many) things, a compulsion to be (mostly) honest, an indescribable optimism about (certain) irritating people and situations.

“Tall, dark, and broody is looking for you,” Todd announces, coming up the stairs two at a time as Damian descends them. Damian amends his evaluation of his mental state: Some people are just as annoying now as they ever were.

“You should not antagonize him,” Damian reprimands, hating that he has to look up to glare at Todd, even though he already has the advantage of standing a step above him.

Rolling his eyes irreverently, Todd scoffs, “Just telling it as I see it. Your bad attitude must have leaked across during the transfer. I’ve never seen him so pissy for no reason.”

“Transfer?” repeats Damian.

All of a sudden, Todd looks ashamed. “Shouldn’t have said that,” he says abruptly. “Shit. Do _not_ let Dick know I said that.”

“What transfer?” Damian demands, reaching up to shake Todd by the shoulders.

He curses and shrugs him off (with little effort, Damian notes irritably). “Don’t look at me, kid,” Todd says gruffly. “I just found the spell.”

“Which spell?” Damian’s frown deepens. It is impossible to overstate the degree to which he dislikes being left in the dark. When Todd tries to make an escape, he is quick to block the way.

Todd holds up his hands in surrender. “Not a conversation you should be having with me,” he says defensively.

Damian shoves his shoulder, not hard enough to dislodge him but just hard enough to make him grunt. “Fine,” he growls. “But if I find out you convinced Grayson to do anything stupid…”

Todd snorts. “Trust me, kid,” he says flippantly. “When it comes to you, Big Brother does not need any convincing.”

It doesn’t take Damian long to find Grayson. They quite literally run into one another as Grayson turns the corner from the kitchen, two steaming mugs in his hands.

“Oof!” Grayson exclaims, and their lightning fast reflexes allow them to dodge each just in time to avoid Grayson spilling the burning liquid all over Damian’s front. Damian dusts off his shoulders and sniffs in disdain at the apology he knows is coming. He is in no mood for such things, not when there are secrets being kept from him. “Sorry, didn't see you there—which is funny because I was just looking for you.”

“What for?” Damian asks, anger briefly surpassed by curiosity. He follows Grayson into the television room, where the massive screen is already switched on and is displaying the start screen of a certain video game that Damian may or may not have been quite excited about before everything happened. Despite his annoyance at Grayson, he can’t help his eager query: “Swordwalkers? You got it?”

Grayson beams at him. “Yup,” he says, setting the drinks down on the table, which is already home to a massive plate of freshly baked cookies. “You wanna play?”

“Might as well,” Damian says, but Grayson smiles at him with his infuriating knowing smile. “You know I always enjoy taking you down a notch.”

There are about a thousand questions he has for Grayson on the tip of his tongue, but he is strangely reluctant to interrupt the moment. Though he will never admit it aloud, he is quite fond of times like these, when they take a break from the unsolvable cases and unrepentant criminals to play at being normal. He wants to be angry at Grayson for keeping things from him; he wants to know how he “resurrected” him; he wants to let loose and yell at somebody because he can’t handle how kind everyone has been since he woke up.

“I call Player One,” he says instead.

He tells himself Grayson’s smile is worth it.

*

Grayson is an adequate adversary when it comes to video games, and it is the most fun Damian has had in a long time, even if he will never admit it aloud. After they’re worn out from at least twenty matches and rematches—Damian is determined to come out on top—they both slump back on the couch and finish off the last of Alfred’s impossibly delicious cookies in a companionable silence. Damian is the one who breaks it, at last.

“Grayson, be honest,” Damian says. Though he is hesitant to shatter the moment, he has no patience for speculation, and he desperately wants to hear the truth from Grayson’s mouth. “How did you bring me back?”

Grayson’s mood shifts instantly, his forehead crinkling. “Isn’t it enough that you’re back?” he asks vaguely. His expression is dark, and Damian notes that he won’t look at him directly. It only makes him more eager for the truth.

“It’s my life,” Damian retorts. “I deserve to know.”

Grayson bows his head. “Ignorance is bliss,” he mutters. Damian crosses his arms in annoyance. Surely Grayson is overhyping it. Whatever he’s done could not possibly be so bad that he thinks Damian would hold it against him. Perhaps…

“Tell me you did not resort to dark magic to bring me back.”

Grayson looks shifty. “I didn’t use dark magic to bring you back,” he says obediently, and Damian can tell he’s trying not to be annoyed.

“But you did _something_ ,” Damian points out, and Grayson says nothing. “I’m not stupid, Grayson, I know how these things work. When you brought me back, there must have been a price. What did you pay?” Damian demands. Grayson says nothing, his lips turned down. His eyes flicker away briefly before meeting Damian’s squarely.

“I did what I needed to do.”

Damian stares at him. The bags under his eyes betray his exhaustion, as do his still limbs. Grayson is drained. He’s smiling and laughing—genuinely—but there is a certain hollow exhaustion to every muscle. Perhaps it’s not fair of him to pry. Perhaps Grayson doesn’t need him pestering him about this. Perhaps the _how_ of the matter is unimportant when there is the _why_ to consider.

“You’re an idiot,” he says, and then softer but more honestly: “I don’t deserve it. Whatever you did.”

Grayson doesn’t bother asking for permission this time: His arms come around Damian, gripping him tightly, as if he could disappear at any moment.

“You’re worth it,” Grayson whispers. Damian thinks it’s funny that he’s so willing to share affection but unwilling to share the truth. His instinct is to brush off the sentimentality, but his eyes are mysteriously damp as he returns the embrace with less reluctance than he will ever admit.

The truth is that there’s a reason Damian was able to communicate with Grayson and not with anyone else. There’s a reason Grayson was the one to figure out how to bring him back. And to want it enough to actually achieve it. There’s a reason Grayson is his favorite partner—then, now, and likely for the rest of their fragile lives.

“Thank you,” Damian whispers into Grayson’s ear, “for believing when nobody else would.”

“Love you, Little D,” Grayson says easily, as if it were as simple as that.

A sharp rebuttal is on the tip of his tongue, but Grayson sags in his arms, and Damian thinks he’ll let him get away with that one.

Just this once.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end of this little piece. I've had a lot of fun writing it, and I hope you've enjoyed reading it. I think, in this age of gritty stories and "shocking" stunts, we all need tales of things going right for our heroes.
> 
> Long live Dick and Damian, the Dynamic Duo who touched all of our hearts.


End file.
